


Detours

by LazBriar



Series: The Thief, The Spider, and the Hotel [7]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Explicit Language, Gay, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Short Stories, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Small Stuff, gay relationships, m/m - Freeform, quick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22113451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/pseuds/LazBriar
Summary: Quick stories, dialogues, and slice-of-life focused content focusing on You (Thief Anon) and your spider, Angel Dust.A repository of concepts I don't get to usually explore in my bigger works.
Relationships: Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Series: The Thief, The Spider, and the Hotel [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286831
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	1. Burning

**Author's Note:**

> I don't always get a chance to dive into the "slice of life" aspect with you, Thief Anon, and your relationship with Angel Dust. Detours will be a set of very short stories or tidbits of you and Angel just. . . well, being. Stuff I don't typically get to involve in the major works will be found here. Sometimes a quick diddy, sometimes cute, sometimes smut. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> For the curious, this involves your surrogate, Thief Anon, and Angel Dust. Time is around the end of SSA but you don't need to have read the major series to enjoy the works.

**Burning**

An explosion screamed to life, ravenous clouds of pinkish-red smoke erupting from a heart of angry fire. Alarms rattled and debris went sailing into the air, singed clothing and blood spraying out in clouds of carnage. Sinners scrambled to get some distance and cars along the roadside nearly crashed, adding to the chaos. Another night in Pentagram City, looked like.

Two figures raced across the pavement and away from the scene of smoldering carnage. One doused in shadow, a lightless shape, featureless at a distance much like a wraith at the end of a hall. The other? Unmistakable, his pinstripe suit accenting hot-white fluff, grinning features, and clicking kinky boots. One of his gloved hands held his hat down, glancing back to see his partner keeping up.

“Was that really necessary!?”

Angel Dust cackled. “Course it was! Dat guy was a real skeeze! Real palooka!”

You rush with your spider, looking back only _once_ to view the smoldering pillar of the burning structure. More specifically, a bar, emphasis on the past tense.

You and Angel reached the opposite sidewalk, a fair distance away from the improvised carnage. You lean over, taking breaths, your overcoat covered with soot and – ugh, what was that? Brain matter?

“He just tapped you on the shoulder,” you say, leaning over.

“Nobody scratch’s da’ paint!” said Angel, puffing out his fluff cleavage proudly, jamming a thumb into it. “Bitch gotta’ pay, and I ain’t takin’ requests! Bitch knew dat’ and was tryin’ to make a move!”

You straighten. Angel Dust looks positively tickled, quite pleased with his “decision.” Said decision which resulted in the fiery temp-death of a few dozen sinners, all because of a misunderstanding. Probably.

“No,” you say, catching your breath. “You socked him across the face and then started a fight!”

Angel looks at you, frowning. “So what?”

“I. . .”

Your spider is sneering. Awh, dammit, you can’t stay cross with him. “Nevermind.”

Angel gestured at the wreckage. “Oh don’t tell me you’ze didn’t enjoy dat, pockets! Ahaha, I saw the way ya’ looked in there!”

You doff your hat a moment, wiping your head. “Enjoy is a _really_ strong word, peppermint.”

He squints at you, leaning in, before licking his gloved thumb and wiping a smudge off your cheek. “You fuckin’ love it.”

Okay, _no._ And. . . yes. The violent part, maybe not so much. The violent part _with_ your spider? Ahh, hey, that wasn’t so bad. You miss the “going out to drink with your special guy,” part but, eh, he has your back, you’ve got his. He’s also pretty fucking hot when he’s getting violent.

“I like the part where we survived,” you say, shifting so he can rub the muck of your face a little easier. “You okay?”

His eyes brighten. “Nmh? M’fine babe.”

You chuckle, pointing at his hair tuft. “Sure about that?”

Angel blinks, not understanding, though doesn’t like where you’re gesturing. “Eh? W-whattya’ mean. . .”

Dawning a nervous expression, he reached into his purse and snapped out a flip mirror. Upon seeing his reflection, he boggled, gawking in horror.

“Oh my GOD!” he shrieked. He touched the end of his hair tuft, the white coloring singed from fire.

“Ahaha,” you laugh. “You got singed bad, Angie.”

He grouses. “Oh SHUTTUP, ya’ fuckin’ cyclops!”

You do not, of course, much to his irritation as he stuffs the mirror back in purse. “I’m sorry hon,” you say in between chuckles. “You _did_ set the fucker on fire, though.”

“Yeah m’bout to set _you’ze_ on fire too if ya’ don’t stuff it!”

You finish laugh. “Aww, c’mon hon, don’t get that way. Maybe we get something to fix it, yeah?”

Here, Angel Dust crosses his four arms, feigning a pout. “Oh _yeah?_ Like _what,_ smart ass?”

You shrug. “I’unno. They got uh. . . banks of conditioner we can knock over?”

“Oh you’ze just fuckin’ with me now, ain’tcha?”

You lean forward, offering a gentle kiss on his cheek, and despite his snarky exterior, he accepts it. Pout shifts and he manages a smirk.

“Ugh, well, dat was a bust,” he says after a moment, looking past you as the wreckage continues to burn. There are sinners scrambling around it, not exactly to put it out, just watching.

“Speakin’ a burnin, scored a little somethin’ off m’plug.”

He reaches into purse again, pulling out a tightly wrapped bag of material. Or more specifically, ungrounded.

“They sell that shit in stores, you know.”

He shrugs. “Yeh, but it’s all that weak leaf. My guy, he grows it himself, only sells it to primo clients like me, ehehe!”

Like you’re actually going to turn down smoking with your husband. Not your usual substance of choice, but, it’s him, and it’s his company, so _of course you’ll partake._

“Romantic.”

He winks. “Ain’t it though?”

-*-

It’s weird. It’s like being alive again, back with the old boys, except this time it’s better, it’s with the _best_ boy, your boy, your spider. It feels nice, sitting here on Hell’s equivalent of a bench in it’s version of a park. Trails of smoke leave a well-wrapped blunt as you and Angel pass it between each other, eyes reddening as you watch the dancing colors of the city. Not how you thought “going to get some drinks tonight” would go, but, eh, a burn is a burn.

Makes you feel cozy and fills you with a saturated sense of warmth. Things are more visceral, “better.” You process it all differently, as does Angel, but it’s nice, and in Hell, you could do with as much nice as you could it.

“. . .fuckin’ swear too, I ate that whole pasta.”

You finish the blunt chatting about food. It makes you hungry. Goddamn and now Angel’s talking about pasta.

Angel gestured with a pair of arms. “I swear yeah, naw me’n Cherri we rolled dis’ place, stole the shit and made it at home. Uggggh, it was so good, I don’t even remember da’ name of the cheese we used, ugggh. . .”

You’re high enough to consider robbing a food joint.

“Home is so far away,” you mutter, thinking of food, and more specifically, eating food with the spider.

“Yeah. . .” Angel grumbles. He frowns, rubbing his chin. Then sneers.

He summons a stick of pink dynamite and a spherical explosive in hands, grinning at you, his eye bloodshot.

You look at him, sigh, and stand, wobbling. You glanced beyond the bench and spy a shoddy convenience store on a city corner. Dawning your hat, you reach out for his hand.

“Just blow it up _after_ we get the snacks, okay?”

He cackles, falling into your side as you stand while the two of you amble for said convenience store while Angel rambles about all the different candies he wants.

Some fifteen minutes later, the building exploded in pillars of pink fire, burning into the evening city.


	2. Midnight Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Angel get drinks. There's no way that can go bad, right?

A barrage of hellfire shattered glass and splintered wood, tearing apart the interior building walls, rendering those caught in the crossfire into piles of motionless chunks. Bottles exploded and splattered the ground with booze while the relentless crack of machinegun fire consumed the air. Ugh.

You sat behind the bar, legs to chest, watching as fat streaks of bright orange shot past you. You reached your hand to feel for your drink but that too was quick shattered by a wayward shot. _Ugh._

Was this a thing that was always gonna’ happen? You glanced to your side, where Angel Dust sat with hands to his head, rolling his eyes until the unrepentant gunfire finally ceased, if for a moment. Slowly, he pulled his hands away, grumbling. “Are dey’ finished?”

The distant clack of emptied mags followed by their replacement indicated otherwise. “What do _you_ think?”

Angel gave a long, exasperated groan. “Nghhh, we’ll be here all _niiiiight._ Dis’ sucks.”

You’ll ignore that this was – again – mostly caused by your husband, lovable bitch he is. “Dead, more likely.”

He bats you on the shoulder. “Aww, lighten up sourpuss. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen. These limp-dicks can’t even shoot. Lookatdat!”

Angel points to the wall, specifically at the bullet holes. “That centertin’! Fuckin’ awful.”

“Oh, great, maybe we can give them lessons, take em’ out for lunch, the whole goddamn shebang.”

He waves you off, going to all fours as his lithe spider body swings to and fro, reaching for several unbroken bottles, grabbing whatever he can find. He retrieves an empty glass and bottles of _something,_ throwing the mixers and alcohol together.

“The hell are you doing!?” you say. He shrugs.

“Makin’ a drink, wise guy. Ya’ want one?”

You don’t answer at once, watching in disbelief. Thinking, you take your hat and raise it in the air, only for a wayward round to strike it through the center, ruining it. Yep, fuckers were still there. This might take a while. You stare at your hat, tossing it.

“. . .fine.”

He snickers. “Atta’ boy.”

In a few moments, a glass appears in front of you, filled with whatever elaborate concoction Angel Dust whipped up. You look at it, a little afraid to even dry the stuff. Angel, meanwhile, offers you a manic grin, clinking glass with yours.

“Cheers, babe!”

You sigh again, knocking it back. Ugh, UGH, it’s horrid, like bleach and flavors that shouldn’t blend together but _do,_ like someone jammed mead with wine and spiced rum, topping it off with a fruity aftertaste.

You sputter, smacking your chest. “Angel, _god,_ why!?”

He makes a face too, smacking his lips after slugging his “masterpiece” back. “Ehhh alright, ain’t m’best work. I’mma call it. . . _Midnight Disaster_!”

You feel your neck, throat practically on fire. “Would make a better malatov, Christ!”

Angel wobbles with laughter, shoving into you while he snickers and chitters. Then, he snaps his fingers, mismatched eyes widening. “Awh! De’rez an idea!”

“. . .huh?”

As you try to figure out what nightmarish plan Angel’s got cooking, a voice breaks over the moment of pace, a small but rugged voice intermixed with others.

_“All right you two fucks! Stop wastin’ our time and get out here so we’ze can kill you proper! Otherwise we’ll torch the place!”_

You roll your eye as Angel busies himself by slinging together another batch of his _horrid_ brew. As he does, you muse over the situation. “Have you noticed everywhere we go. . . something catches on fire?”

Angel’s four arms sprint about as he mixes the foul mixture, not looking at you as he works. “Occupational hazard, pockets.”

“And blows up.”

“Wouldn’t be party if somethin’ wasn’t getting’ blown, ehehehe.”

You watch him finish the new brew, which turns a poison pink as he pours it into a bottle. “Can’t you just summon a grenade?”

He shakes it quickly. “Where’s da fun in dat!?”

He proceeds to lean, kissing your cheek. “Can you’ze make a distraction real quick?”

Well, _no,_ you’d rather not but. . . how are you gonna’ say no to your husband? “Fine, fine.” You fish around in your overcoat pockets, feeling for something that might help you. Hmm. You had an old smoke bomb. Hadn’t used one of them since you were knocking over _Gadzooks_ joints. Then again, the mooks outside didn’t need to _see_ to shoot if their aim was any indication.

“Hmm. . .”

There was another thing. You pulled off the glove to your left hand, revealing the brass prosthetic. As it turned out, the _Saint’s Arm_ was “handy” for an assortment of stuff. It was just. . . stuff you hadn’t completely figured out. Moving a digit a certain way activated one feature, rotating the wrist did another. Of course, a _wrong_ series of movements and the end result wasn’t so good.

“Ya’ need some time over there, smart guy?” Angel chided, taking a peek over the bar. This time you wave him off.

“No, no, I got it, hang on.”

You shifted your metal wrist to the left, to an angle that wasn’t humanly possible. It clicked and hissed a few times, until the hand came off. What normally caused panic when seeing an entire ligament fall away, this instead inspired hopeful intrigue. Revealed was a barrel interwoven within the prosthetic, essentially, a small cannon. For what? You didn’t know, nevermind there was, apparently, a Saint wielding a gun-arm at some point in their life.

Your spider watched the hand fall, picking it up. “Uhhh. . . should I be concerned?”

You don’t hear him, taking one of the smoke bombs and stuffing it into the barrel. You shift from your position, giving him an uncertain smile. “Maybe.”

You take position over the counter, preparing to launch the bomb. Angel, however, stops you, yanking your shoulder. “Waitwaitwait!” he chitters.

“What?”

Angel wears a manic expression, rummaging into his purse and yanking out his Hellphone, tapping into it wildly.

“Selfie!” he says, making a face.

_“Oh my god, Angel.”_

You proceed to sort of wiggle your arm (you’re not wholly clear on the firing mechanism) and the thing explodes in a volley of improvised missile. The smoke bomb fires into the outside crowd, bursting into a fog of gray. There are panicked yells, giving you both a _moment._

“Okay, there, go!” you yell. “Throw the thing!”

Angel Dust raises a finger. “. . .hang on. . . gettin’. . . my angle. . .”

He props the camera so it sees him in view, and you, and his malotov. You about grab the bottle before he finally chucks it, typing in his “commentary.”

_GIT ROASTED BICH XOXO MWAH_

Much like the name implies, the Midnight Disaster erupts in a violent cloud of pink fire and spreads fast. The gunners outside are eaten up by it, and oddly enough, attempts to douse the fire only make it worse.

Angel watches and hugs himself, cackling. “WAHAHAAHAH!”

He points, wiping tears from his eyes as one of the sinners runs about in flailing despair, aflame. You grab Angel, sprinting out of the damned place while the attackers are too busy trying not to die horribly.

“Yeah great good _let’s go!”_

Again, both of you are scrambling away from a place of drink while something’s on fire. _Fucking hell._

You manage to find a street corner, Angel beside himself with howling laughter. He runs an arm around your shoulder. “D-didja’ see dat’ fuckin’ guy ohmygod dat’ was priceless AHAHAHA m’gonnaFUCKIN’puke AHAHAH!”

You rub your head. Oh. Goddammit your hat’s gone.

But. . . spider is happy. That’s worth everything. And you know, it _was_ pretty goddamn funny. You have to fight back your own laughter, reattaching the metal hand to its prosthetic home. Angel, meanwhile, finally settles down, his eyes a sloppy mess from guffawing so much.

“Awwh shit, wahaha, ahh. . . dat was great.”

He glances to you, smiling, nudging your shoulder. “You’ze a fuckin riot to go out with, babe.”

“Thanks hon,” you say, putting your glove back on. “Happy to help with indiscriminate murder.”

“Fuckin’ hell yeah!”

He glances around, rubbing his stomach. “Egh. Fuckin’ shit up gets me hungry. Pizza?”

After all that death?

. . .yeah.

“Pizza.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is too fun to write.


	3. Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's raining, so you ask Angel about why he cross-dresses.

**Dress**

An evening where you’re forced to stay indoors. Could be worse. In fact, it’s preferable right now. Storms in Hell are something to behold, ranging from gentle to catastrophic, and this one’s wavering like a temperamental mother. The windows are battered with violent water droplets and distant cracks of scarlet lightning flicker throughout the horizon. The sky is pitch black and the Pentagram is obscured. It’s times like this you remember how lucky you are, and appreciate every second of safety, especially because you’re with Angel Dust.

That’s not something many get to say. You get to keep the spider, and it feels nice. Makes you feel light, worthwhile, meaningful. Hell’s a bad place, full of some pretty horrifying things, so lodging in his room and having the comfort of his love? Oh could be worse, way worse.

You see his reflection in the window. He’s doting on himself again with an arsenal of makeup, carefully applying eyeliner and eyeshadow – or at least the foundations of them. You think? It’s actually all quite complex even though he’s explained it you a few times. Layers is what you remember. Layers and patience.

You notice, too, he’s in a blue dress, trying on an accompanying wig. Very dazzling, emphasis on his drag-queen persona. It’s pretty, to say the least. To _say the least._

Now that you think about it, since you have _time_ to think. . .

“Angel,” you say, watching the rain fall, staring at the distant chaotic lights of Pentagram City.

He doesn’t glance your way, focused. “Nmhm?”

“Mind if I ask you something?”

He flutters his eyes, moving his face from side to side. “I’ll suck ya’ dick in a bit, babe, m’just busy.”

A dry chuckle. “Hah. No, not that. It’s about what you’re doing.”

“Huh?”

“Well, never asked why. About the drag thing, why you do it.”

He casts you a curious look now, freckles caught in the light. “What, ya’ tryin’ t’get a scoop for Trenchie?”

You turn around to face him. “Well yes, obviously. Big money in the news. But also, it’s important to you, right? I want to know.”

He blinks, processing, and perhaps even flushes a little. “Oh.” _Oh_ in the way he didn’t expect your sudden interest. It’s probably been a while since he got to genuinely explain why he got into drag or cross-dressed in the first place.

“Well. . .” he says, looking himself over in the mirror, eyeing his dolled-up features. “S’pretty big question there, pockets. Uhh. Huhm.”

A loud rumble of thunder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He pauses again, features tugged with a small smile. “Okay.”

“I’unno babe. S’been that way since I can remember. I like feelin’ pretty, and wearin’ dress stuff. Trendy things is fun, messin’ with fashion is fun. Dazzlin’ and catchin’ eyes, awh, I love it. Dis feelin’ is exciting, where like, ya’ walk into some dump and everybody looks yer’ way.”

He turns to you, miming a ‘looking person.’ “Ya’ know. _Oooh, there goes dat’ Angel.”_

He puffs up his cleavage before returning to his eyeliner, meticulous in application. “People either wanna’ be me, or be with me. Ya’ get drunk offa’ that, pockets, it’s the best. Ah but, ain’t the whole reason I get into dresses. It feels, um, _right._ ”

He retrieve some lipstick with an extra arm, racing it across his soft lips with precise care before pressing them together.

“I know dat’ sounds kinda dumb but, ain’t no other way for me to put it. Clicks, feels good, and I love workin’ it. I tell ya, pockets, bein’ able to toss on a suit or a dress is, awh, it’s the fuckin’ tits. My tits, specifically.”

You chuckle, intrigued. “I think I can understand. It sounds like power, in a way.”

“Mm. Maybe. Never thought of it dat’ way.”

You lean on the wall. “If you have the attention, you control the situation or sway the uh, energy of a conversation. You make people _want_ you, and you decide if they get something. That’s power, I think.”

You muse over it. “My dumb theory, anyway.”

He snickers. “It’s cute.”

“Is it stupid?”

He waves you off. “Naw, I see what’cha mean. I _like_ the attention. And it’s fun. Never got to do dat, ya know.”

He points at the ceiling, indicating “Up There.”

“Ya’ know all that shit they hock at’cha, like, be yourself? Well, I can’t think of no other way of bein’ me than slappin’ on a dress and struttin’ m’stuff. Or just lookin’ fuckin’ good. Awh, s’great feeling. Like it was _meant_ to be.”

He pauses, setting down his lipstick with a family of other shades before taking his wig and giving it a careful once over.

“Sa’ll about ownin’ identity.”

Considering what your Angel _usually_ says and how much of a sass mouth he can be, this is all quite poignant.

“Wow. When I can I read the book?”

He ignores this with a scoff and stands, carefully patting down his dress before putting on the wig, which is a fluffy river of silvery-white. It’s like long hair, hiding his eyes, and without knowing who he was, you could easily mistake him for a lady. He spreads his arms out, looking at you.

“Soooo, how’z it lookin’?”

Not a fair a question to you. “Killin’ me babe, it’s gorgeous.”

He fluffs his improvised fluff cleavage. “And the girls?”

“. . .uh.”

“Fuckin’ huge right.”

You shrug now. “You said it, not me.”

There’s another rumble of thunder. Angel gestures for you, holding out an arm. “Well, come on, cyclops, we gonna’ be late.”

Ah, yes. Since it’s raining Charlie thought a little local entertainment might be nice in the Hotel’s theater. It’s still under renovation, but everyone’s chipping in, and technically it’s more time you get to spend with Angel dust.

You take his arm while he hooks around yours, shoulders pressed nice and close. Gentle warmth forms between you two while you muse over his words. As you leave his room, he snickers.

“Ever wonder what you’d look like wearin’ m’suit?”

You wearing his what? You blink, entertaining the thought for a moment. It’s. . . different.

“Uhh.”

He laughs. “HAW! I knew it!”


	4. The Flip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a cold day, so you make Angel a little drink.

**The Flip**

The irony of a chilly day in _Hell_ isn’t lost on you.

In comical fashion, the Happy Hotel’s heater went on the fritz too – something about Niffty trying to stab an insect through one of the pipes. Regardless, the building interior carried a dull cold and _everyone_ had to bundle up. Even you had to toss on an overcoat just to fight off the shakes. Angel Dust had a similar idea, wrapped in a puffy pink sweater with expletives and raunchy images stitched into it. It didn’t improve his opinion of things, though.

“Dis fuckin’ sucks! We ain’t payin’ to live in a goddamn icebox!” he grumbled.

“We’re not paying for the rooms at all,” you say, which earns you a raspberry. Angel is huddled on one of the Hotel couches, his pig – Fat Nuggets – perched in his lap. The little oink is _also_ wearing a sweater, though he attempts to bite at it much to Angel’s increasing aggravation.

“My illuminatin’ company is worth all the moneyshots in the city,” continues the spider. “M’point being _I’m about to set this shitshack on fire_ if it don’t warm up!”

He points to you. “What t’hell ya’ drag us down here for anyway! It’s warmer in my room!”

He’s not wrong. There are. . . “methods” to increase one’s temperature, specifically under the covers. You’ll save it for later. For now, on a day like this where _actual snow_ (or a material imitating snow) is visible outside, you have something up your sleeve. A little treat from your urchin days, probably the _one_ good thing you picked up at the foster home. Now seemed appropriate to share it with your spider.

“It’s a surprise,” you say. “A good one.”

Angel rubs Nugget’s head while he squints at you. “Yeah unless you’ze put a bowtie on your dick that doesn’t answer m’question.”

You wave your hand. “Just, hang on, would you?”

He rolls his eyes. “Uuuuughhh, fiiiiine.”

You smirk, gesturing to the wall, where a fireplace sits. The Hotel is a massive contraption of unusually arranged designs, so, it’s not completely out of place. “So the nuns were cunts, but, they did have a good word of wisdom now and again. ‘Keep the fire inside you so it may warm your steps.’ Or something.”

Angel stares. “What.”

“ _I’m doing something.”_

You leave the room a moment but return soon after, carrying an entourage of ingredients. One of said ingredients happens to be some ale, of which Angel spies _immediately._ His annoyed expression shifts to a manic grin.

“OH! Bout’ fuckin’ time! Now ya’ speakin’ my language, babe!”

“I’m not done.”

His extra arms splay out in annoyance. “Well be done so we’ze can get smashed!”

“Will you relax!”

You set the ingredients aside. You’re not _just_ using ale, you’re prepping a perfect cold-day drink. Every now and again the nuns would whip it up for the season, typically when a special guest was visiting, or the holiday. Since then you carried the recipe in your head. It was cheap, easy, and timeless.

“Now, let me just get this together. . .”

Angel taps his kinky boots on the ground, huffing, watching you intently. Or more specifically, what you’re doing with the ale and alcohol.

“It’s a flip cocktail,” you say, nearing the fire. You crack eggs in a pint glass, beating them together in careful, methodic motions. Angel Dust hides a snicker.

“Kehe, a what?”

You don’t pick up on it “A cockta. . . oh. Funny, Angel.”

“Ain’t it?”

You ignore this and continue with the concoction, melting together the ingredients. A little cinnamon and a touch of brown sugar mixed with the ale, simmered by the fireside in a pot. It required tossing the liquid between a pair of mugs until the drinks were of a pleasant, hot temperature, sweetened by the added ingredients and creamy thanks to the egg. Finally, you retrieved an iron poker and pushed it into the drinks, the liquid hissing as the flip cocktail finished.

“There.”

Angel continued to watch as you poured the mixture into each glass, coming to him, the tops dribbling with a thick foam, fingers of steam trailing from them. You handed one to Angel who took it with spare hands.

“Common theme at the home, I noticed,” you say, sitting next to him. “Drinking hot stuff and fire and all.”

“Ey, if it’s got alcohol, knock er’ back,” chuckled Angel, raising the drink to his lips. He took a cautious sip. At once, his eyes lit up, the rich flavor hitting him as he smacked his lips.

“Ooo,” he hummed. “Dat’s. . . real fuckin’ good!”

You smile. “Not bad, right?”

He takes another healthy swig, gasping. “Like, _real_ good! Didj’a put drugs in this or some shit? I seen you in the kitchen, ya’ can’t cook for shit!”

“Sure I can.”

“Stew don’t count!”

You take a drink yourself. The bite of the ale is offset by the creamy texture and contrast of sweetness, while your chest is warmed, dispelling the cold.

“Says who?”

He sticks his tongue out. “Me.”

He doesn’t say more though, rather takes another deep swig of the thing, so much that the foam dribbles from his lips and he finishes it rather quickly.

“. . .wow.”

Angel smacks his lips, cheeks flushed. “Nmf. Mwah! Awh, damn! I give ya’ that one. . . dat was good, pockets!”

“I’m glad you approve.”

He nudges your side. “. . . can ya’ make me another?”

You chuckle. “I _just_ sat down.”

“Pleeeeease?”

He leans into you, making eyes. “Pleeeease?”

“Okay, okay.” Like you’re going to turn down your spider.

He grins, kissing you on the cheek. “Awh fuck, you’ze da best!”

The kiss is nice and fills you with a warmth far superior from any drink. Fat Nuggets oinks too, and you pet him, feeling his nose push into your palm.

“Still cold?” you say, finishing your flip cocktail.

Angel forces a frown. “A little. Maybe if ya’ give me your drink too.”

“ _Really?”_

Again, he just grins, and again, you won’t deny him. You hand him your drink and he starts to sip at it, but this time swings an arm around your shoulder, pushing his frame into yours. “De’re. Now ya’ can sit here with me.”

Mmm. A good feeling. You kiss his head and let his lithe frame settle into yours, watching the fire together.

It’s chilly out, but you can’t tell anymore.


	5. Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, Angel, and Vaggie have a small discussion on sexual identity and what it means to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a fetish for wild characters maturely discussing the nature of who they are like old friends.

**Identity**

“C’mon, dis is important.”

Angel tugged at your wrist, leading you downstairs into one of the Hotel quarters, the television room. You weren’t sure _why,_ but he’d been insistent all morning to come with you to watch something. When you arrived, you weren’t alone, either. Vaggie was there, legs crossed, looking a bit more relaxed than her usual aggravated expression.

“Uh oh,” you say. “Something happen?”

You say that because normally, when Vaggie’s around, it mean she’s laying down the law. Angel’s quick to correct you, though.

“Nnnope!”

In fact, as you enter, Vaggie turns and offers a pleasant wave. Uh. Good? She pats the space next to her, for Angel to sit. Wait, what? The hell is going on.

“Did we miss it?” says the spider, taking his space and pulling you to sit next to him. Vaggie shakes her head.

“No, it was just the warmup band. He’ll start soon.”

“Fuckin sweet!”

You’re lost. “Uh, hey, sorry, _what’s happening?”_

Vaggie glances at you, then to Angel, surprised. “You didn’t tell him?”

Angel shrugs. “What’s ta’ tell?”

She chuckles. “A _lot,_ actually.”

Now, Vaggie looks at you. “Well, smartass here didn’t explain, so guessing I need to.”

You look to her then the television, which appears to be a show. There’s a demon, a well-dressed sinner strolling up on a classy stage in front of a studio audience. His suit sparkles in resplendent silver, neon pink lights accompanying his approach. He stands on stage, a posh looking rabbit, granting an effete wave to the viewers.

You’re confused. “That would help.”

“Well,” starts Vaggie. “That’s Marchelli.”

Angel leans, watching the screen with intent. “Ey, where’s blondie? She oughta’ be here.”

“Don’t interrupt!” says Vaggie. “And busy, sadly. It’ll just be us.”

“Laaaame.”

 _“Anyway,”_ continues Vaggie. “Marchelli. Him. Kind of a big deal. Openly gay. Well, _proudly_ so, even for standards of Down Here. I know that sounds like a minor detail, everything considered.”

You see Angel and watch him. He’s _really_ into this. In fact, as Marchelli speaks, he listens, in such a way that he’s hanging off every word. Wow.

“Class fuckin’ act dis guy. Tops, all the way. Lookatdat queen! Fuuuck, what I wouldn’t give fer a suit like dat. Damn, y’see how they did his hair tonight?”

Well. . . all right? Great. That’s good, you think. “I see. . .” you say.

“For us, Angel and me, I mean. . .”

“And Chuck!”

“And Charlie. For _us,_ it means a lot. You know, it’s still Hell, Anon, and I don’t think I have to tell you twice how it goes for the gays.”

Oh. Huh. You think you understand. Maybe? So Marchelli, as far as you can tell, is magnetic and open and proud of his identity. Well, again, that’s a good thing.

“Yeah!” adds Angel. “Dis is important! And for you too, pockets!”

Wait, what?

“Huh? Me?”

Angel flicks his mismatched eyes at you, almost annoyed “Yeah _you,_ genius! You’ze as fuckin’ queer as da’ best of em’. Ain’t no bitchy ex fixin’ dat, ahahaha.”

Vaggie grumbles. “Angel, _god._ What he _means_ is that we watch Marchelli all the time. I mean, yes he’s a sinner, but he’s a bit of a local hero, too. And well, if we’re not being too forward, it’s just something we wanted to share with you. It’s important to feel represented.”

It has, just now, dawned on you. All of _this,_ this relationship with Angel Dust. The reality of it, and what it’s meant, in that yes, in fact, it’s pretty gay. For some reason that’s never quite clicked. In fact, as you roll through the past in your head, not once did you ever think about it. Not _this_ way, not on the nature of having an identity that involved homosexuality (or bisexuality, you guess), it just kinda’ was. Not once have you ever considered the philosophical implications if it, because you never found it. . . necessary. Are they sure you’re right for this?

“Uh,” you say, rubbing head. “I’m touched. But I don’t know if I’m. . .”

How do you even put this? Angel swings his head, staring at you. “If ya’ fuckin’ say I ain’t gay I’m gonna fuckin’ sock ya and den suck yer dick.”

“No, no, not that, I just uh. I’ve never thought about it.”

You look at Marchelli. Hmm. That’s a person you don’t know, and it’s a world you don’t think you understand, either.

“I’ve just. . . well, if I liked something I went after it. Never really thought about what was between the legs.”

Vaggie blinks “Oh.” Her tone isn’t disappointed though.

“Sounds awfully close to pansexual,” offers Vaggie.

Again, you realize, you’ve never asked yourself. “I suppose.”

“Ooo, listen t’you,” says Angel with a proud snicker, slapping your shoulder. “You’ze a pannie, Annie?”

You shrug, helpless. “I don’t know what that means.”

“You ‘go after’ anyone, regardless of their identity or gender or any of that stuff. You’re after _them,_ if that makes sense? The person.”

Huh.

That is probably the best way to describe your mindset regarding a lot of things. People were people. Granted, when you chased it was for desire in your mortal life, not like you were some beacon of wholesome representation.

“Aww, izzat’ how ya’ feel, Anon?” says Angel, giving you an endearing kiss.

You’re not entirely sure, but yeah. Why not. “I think so.”

“Dat’s good!” he says, cheery. “Dat’s important. Ain’t nothin’ more valuable than y’self, Anon.”

You chuckle. “I can think of _one_ person.”

Vaggie nods. “He’s right though. I don’t think we have to explain what it’s like Up There regarding. . .” she gestures to herself and Angel.

“Us.”

She doesn’t. Given what you know about Angel’s history, that’s a given. And your surrogate Family? It thrived on nothing but intense machismo elements and _extreme_ denouncement of homosexuality. Or ny variation of sexuality. If there was even a _whiff_ that you were “different,” you’d be lucky to just be ostracized.

“I’m sorry it happens,” you say lamely.

Angel waves a hand. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. We’ze makin’ up for lost time. Can’t fuckin tell ya how good it feels to run a bitch’s head in while lookin’ _fabulous.”_

You nod. “You mentioned it feels right. Looking pretty?”

“Aw fuck yeah. _Fuck bein’ a sober hoe,_ ya’ just gotta’ be, baby.”

“Not everyone agrees,” comments Vaggie, gesturing at the screen. “That’s why we like Marchelli.”

Angel nods. “Aww yeah, ya’ wouldn’t believe pockets, queens got claws, ya’ know? Everyone’s got dis idea of how ya’ s’posed to act. Don’t do this, don’t do dat. Eh? Fuck em’, you know! Be proud! You is _you!”_

You couldn’t possibly understand, you’ve been lucky to skirt this kind of thing. In fact, you feel guilty over it. These two have no doubt been scorned, harassed, and outright attacked for their sexual preferences, in life and here. You? It never came up. You never _invested_ in the community, you never knew it, fought for it, understood it. Do you really belong this way?

“Marchelli just is, and he won’t compromise,” Vaggie goes on. “And believe us, Anon, _a lot_ of people compromise.”

Angel raises a pair of hands. “We ain’t judgin’. Ya’ can’t just suck a dick these days without some schmuck gettin’ all pissy ‘bout it, so ya’ know, not always easy to be y’self.”

He throws a thumb at Vaggie. “Ol’ snatch knows dat shit too well.”

Now you _really_ feel out of place. It’s weird enough seeing these two get along, but on the nature of a sexuality you only explored with Angel Dust? What an odd curveball.

“Hmm. I don’t know if I can relate. I’ve never struggled like this. Kinda cheating, aren’t I?”

Vaggie tilts her head. “What? No.”

“Hell no!” says your spider. “Babe, you’ze as valid as da’ rest of us!”

Still. “I didn’t go through the same shit. I don’t think I could understand.”

“Do you want to?” ask Vaggie.

It’s an odd question. Not a bad one, just a query that’s new. The implications are interesting. You see Vaggie and your husband in a new light, their “world” so to speak. Certainly, you’ve never belonged to anything as far as you could recall. A Family, perhaps, but even then you were always an outsider. The only thing, the only culture and reality that clicked was the one where you stole things and hurt people. For Angel and Vaggie, that’s not the case. People fought and suffered so they could just _exist,_ and you couldn’t even name a single person who, say, championed gay rights or whatever.

But. . . it does mean you get to share something special with your spider. And, with Vaggie. And Charlie. That’s not such a bad thing, is it?

“All right,” you eventually say. “I’m game. What’s up with this fella, again?”

“Marchelli,” Vag and Angel say in unison.

“Shit, he started doin’ shows bout, what was it, decade ago?” says Angel, looking at Vaggie.

“That was after Don Dickelson and the Funky Phallus Group died, yeah,” she said.

“Hohohohly shit that’s right!” Angel cackles, slapping his head. “Literal roasted dicks, aha!”

Angel turns to you, and his eyes are _sparkling_ with enthusiasm. “Alright, get dis, so da’ first time Marchy comes up he does a whole broadway show, dicks out, it was da best. . .”

Aaaand you’re under siege by the fan-driven ramblings of Vaggie and Angel. Not a bad thing, not at all, but boy you weren’t ready to hear the entire history of an effete sinner and what he meant for these two.

But hey, you know what? It gives them comfort and happiness. You can’t imagine a world where the identify of _yourself_ is dangerous. These two want to share a source of strength, and, it means a lot.

The evening rolls on and eventually even Charlie joins. She immediately gabs with Vaggie and there’s some friendly discussion about things you don’t really understand. But hey, Angel’s curled around you, watching the show with intent intrigue, and you feel his hand curl around yours. It’s nice.

The matter of pride is an interesting thing indeed.


End file.
